


Turning Point

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Apocalypse, Body Horror, Drug Use, Infection, John is infected, M/M, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the initial outbreak John began to turn on a Wednesday.</p><p>Sherlock saw the changes immediately, as the doctor began to shuffle his way down the stairs, eyes red with fever, sluggish from sore muscles.</p><p>Sherlock purchased a shock collar and a leash that afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shocks

A year after the initial outbreak John began to turn on a Wednesday.

Sherlock saw the changes immediately, as the doctor began to shuffle his way down the stairs, eyes red with fever, sluggish from sore muscles.

Sherlock had said nothing as he put on his coat and went down to the street, ignoring John’s confused gaze in silence.

He purchased a shock collar and a leash that afternoon.

John had stared at him with bright, wet eyes as he showed him the collar he would soon be wearing.

John just shook his head, numb with upset as he said, “You need to just shoot me then. If you’re right, let’s get this done.”

“I can fix this,” Sherlock said, ignoring the way John pulled away from him. “Give me time, and I can find a way.”

“You’ve had a year, Sherlock.” John said quietly. “Mycroft has been trying to get you assist with a cure for a year. Why is this different?”

“Because it’s you.” Sherlock had replied, staring intently, willing understanding.

John stared back, just as obstinate. “You should just shoot me.” And John continued saying it, every day for a week. It was one of his last coherent sentences.

During that week, Sherlock tended to John’s hands. Those hands which had grown, knuckles swelling and phalanges extending. John only muttered once about the pain and Sherlock had dove headfirst into Mrs. Hudson’s medicine cabinet, taking every arthritis medication pill he could find. It helped take the hurt away but still his hands grew, fingertips sharpening into points. John hid them, laced and tucked away as he gripped his own sides, rocking back and forth on the bed, eyes squeezed shut. Sherlock knew it was hard for him to resist clawing.

As it was, John had attacked him a few times before losing himself. Three times, total. The first time he had returned from the Yard, brushing snow off his hair and unwinding his scarf when John had pounced, slamming Sherlock to the floor and knocking the wind from him. He managed to keep his head from hitting until John grabbed him and shoved hard. Sherlock seized him, using adrenaline to wrest himself from John’s hold and pin the man against the stairs.

John had cried that night; the only night Sherlock could remember him ever crying. And no matter how much he tried to calm John, reassure him, John kept apologizing over and over and over until Sherlock wanted to scream at him.

“You should just shoot me.”

Sherlock’s answer was always the same. “That’s not going to happen."

The second time, is what prompted the collar.

His restraint had been slower- he only came to when he saw Sherlock’s blood on his hands.

The wound wasn’t deep, but it stung for days. John had insisted on patching Sherlock up, and although it was slow with his malformed hands, it was still effective.

“I’m sorry,” John murmured, eyes wet, for the tenth time. Sherlock ran his hand though John’s hair, an attempt to calm.

“I don’t have a lot of time left.” John had said to him, leaning against the kitchen wall. His posture had begun to degenerate, leaving him hunched and stooped. He tried to keep upright, a soldier’s stance, but Sherlock could see it was a painful endeavor—that physically his back was changing.

“I …” John’s voice hitched. Sherlock stared at the floor. “I can hold on, a bit. I think. This could be the last time…”

“Don’t.” Sherlock snapped, but John shook his head.

“I love you.” And John’s voice trembled so much, so hard, Sherlock leaned in and held him. John leaned up and kissed him. “I love you,” he repeated. “I can hold on tonight.”

And John did. Sherlock made love to him through the night, slow and luxuriant. He gripped John, so tightly, unwilling to stop, unwilling to let this precious moment of John with him go while John was still himself.

John had fallen asleep moments after they made love the final time and Sherlock watched him breathe steady breaths.

As the sun came up, Sherlock collared him.

As he hitched the strap around John’s soft neck, fastening it tightly, John had shifted. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He breathed, so gently Sherlock blinked back tears.

“I’ll miss you.”

“John, don’t.” Sherlock cried out, shaking his head furiously. “I will fix this. I promise. Please, I promise you.”

But John had already fallen asleep.

When John awoke next, he just showered and dressed and then sat, hunched in the corner—the corner he had decided he liked which was next to the couch and the darkest spot in their flat. Sherlock hadn’t tried to make him fight that impulse, not anymore, an unnecessary added torture. He didn’t disturb John until mid-evening, as Sherlock sat on the couch, knees hugged to his chest, trying not to rock back and forth like a worried child, attempting to self-soothe. John had crept out from his corner and Sherlock jerked as he felt a clawed hand on his knee.

“I ..love. You.” John managed to slur out, one final time.

The words flipped Sherlock’s stomach and tilted his world. He had convinced himself that he wouldn’t be seeing John, his John, for a long time. Until he figured this out, until he fixed this. Which he would. He’d promised.

“I love you too,” he replied hoarsely.

John crawled up onto the couch, crawled over to Sherlock, and crawled into his lap.

And attacked him a third time.

Sherlock’s fingers had been on the remote all day; they curled around it in a heartbeat and sent electricity through John’s body before he could strike, the force of which knocked him back to the floor.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, stunned at both the attack and his reflexive trigger finger. “Are you alright?”

John rose, shaking and sweating, eyes beaming red, skin paler than Sherlock had ever seen. “Shoot me!” John screamed as he hunched and clawed at his own chest. Numbly, Sherlock shook his head, flinching as John screamed again. “God damn you Sherlock! Shoot me! FUCKING SHOOT ME!”

And even though this was John, so clearly and openly his John, Sherlock hit the button and John screamed and collapsed.

He never saw or heard from him again.


	2. Antiserum

 He never saw or heard from him again, but it made it easier.

In some ways.

Once John disappeared and left him with a raging creature in his likeliness, he had to use the shock collar so much that he had to drug John to replace the batteries to make sure it wouldn’t give out at an inconvenient time.

The first day he had to utilize it once every five minutes or so. The next day rewarded him with a 100% improvement– once every ten minutes. Unfortunately the curve didn't hold– for the next week he had to shock John those every ten minutes to keep from being pounced and torn apart. His yelps were always furious, distraught. He'd slink into a brooding silence, snarling under his breath, sometimes giving a high-pitched whine of hurt for many minutes afterward.

After that week, Sherlock drugged him into unconsciousness and locked him inside 221C.

When John woke, the leather leash Sherlock had initially purchased and connected to a metal pipe on the wall snapped within the first three minutes.

He shocked John again and found a chain.

John kept himself curled in the corner, always growling and snarling, flashing red eyes and snapping sharp teeth whenever Sherlock opened the door. But he stopped attempting to break the chain to reach him. He was relieved to at least know the creature had finally learned  _something_.

Sherlock almost threw up when he had to shock John into unconsciousness in order to draw a pint of blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, as John had screamed and writhed on the floor, snarling and drooling. He needed a clean sample clear of drugs.

He needed to get to work.

Afterwards, he couldn’t stop shaking for hours.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, he gave John his first injection.

_#18. Readied antiserum._

_No discernable results._

* * *

He fed John flesh. He found he wouldn’t eat anything else.

Others might have vomited at the mere thought, but Sherlock found this to be the easiest of tasks. It was just meat, after all. John had to eat, what did it matter if the flesh had once belonged to a person? To someone he didn't even know? He wasn't about to let John starve, not after all this. After all, Sherlock only gave him infected flesh; they were already ‘gone’ in a sense. There were plenty of infected samples in the labs, and no one batted an eye when he requested arms, legs and torsos for his own ‘experiments’ as they knew them.

He cut and fed chunks to him and John always ate like he was starved. He always made it clear that he’d rather be chewing on Sherlock’s living flesh, but without anything else he always ate what Sherlock gave him, down to the marrow.

* * *

One month later, he gave John his second injection.

_# 79. Readied antiserum._

_No discernable results._

* * *

Three weeks went by and the pattern continued. Every other day, he drugged John through his water dish and pulled him into the tub to bathe him. He shaved him and clipped his hair, knowing in the end it hardly mattered, but understanding how upset John would be to be so wild and unkempt. It was the very least Sherlock could do for his comfort.

Then a day came by when John didn’t snarl at him at all when he entered, instead sitting almost upright and watching him carefully as he made his way to him with his dinner.

Sherlock's hackles rose, instantly alert as he dropped the plate and slid it over to John.

John's eyes dropped to the plate, up to Sherlock, to the plate and then over to Sherlock's hand. The hand that held the remote.

Well. This was new.

John shuffled over to the meat, eating swiftly and Sherlock watched with his usual morbid curiosity.

He knelt to his knees, keeping one foot firmly planted in case he needed to swiftly pivot away. John didn't growl as he shifted closer, stretching out to grab the cleaned plate.

Insanely, he wanted to touch John while he was coherent. A reckless and completely irresponsible part of him wanted to reach and brush fingers through John’s warm hair or feel the heat of his thigh through his trousers. John was always fevered, his skin always blazing.

His eyes were intently fixated on the remote and he didn’t flinch as Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers on his knee. There was a snarl, a small one, and John looked pointedly away and shifted, but no attack came. His claws remained at his sides.

Deciding not to press his luck, Sherlock backed away and rose, plate in hand.

“Good night, John.” He said as he always did, as he flicked off the light.

The next morning, he gave John his third injection.

_#109. Readied antiserum_ _._

_No discernable results._

* * *

 

A month passed by, when the call came in. His luck couldn’t have pressed forever.

“They tell me you’ve been at the labs nearly ever day,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock sat rigidly on the couch, nearly crushing his phone with frustration.

“Do they?” Sherlock asked, tone deliberately light and slightly bored.

“Mm. Something you want to tell me, Sherlock?”

His mind whirred. From Mycroft, that could mean anything.

“No.” He said, but the quarter second hesitation might as well have been a confession.

“You’re taking quite a lot of specimen samples, using a lot of equipment used to break down blood samples. One might take this that you are working on a vaccine, instead of your own macabre experiments.”

“And if I am?” He asked.

There was brief silence on the other end before, “Well now, why would you do that?”

“Betterment of humanity? Good will? Human salvation?” Sherlock shrugged to himself. “Aren’t those reasons enough?”

“Not from you, no.” A pause. “What’s going on, Sherlock? Why would you work on a vaccine when you are immune? When everyone you know is either dead or impervious to infection? You wouldn’t do this without good reason.”

Sherlock was silent.

_Penny in the air…_

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s tone was suddenly dangerous. Sherlock just could see him in his office, suddenly sitting up straighter in that horribly tacky leather chair. “Everyone you know is _immune_. We ran tests and blood panels.”

“Yes. You did.” He paused. “I’m not finding a vaccine, Mycroft. I’m finding the cure.”

“Where is Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked quickly.

“He’s safe in unit C.”

_And the penny drops._

“Oh good _LORD_.” Mycroft hissed. “Are you utterly **_insane_**?”

“Quite possibly,” _Very probable._ “But given this apocalyptic situation we find ourselves in I’ll hardly find myself alone.”

“Active or passive?”

“He’s perfectly contained…”

“Active or passive?!” Mycroft boomed and Sherlock stilled at the tone he hadn’t heard since childhood.

“He’s an active. He’s an active level nine.” He could practically hear his brother pale.

“I’m sending a team over.”

“Don’t you _dare_!” Sherlock snarled. “Mycroft!” But the line went dead.

* * *

 

Sherlock paced in the hallway, the door to C open. John was chained, per usual, watching him warily from his camp in the corner, silent.

“You couldn’t have been a passive.” Sherlock snarled, throwing his hands in the air. “Of course not. Not _you_. Not you _Captain Watson_.” At that Sherlock spun and slammed his palm into the wall.

The doorbell chimed.

John flinched and Sherlock jolted in surprise.

Well. How polite of them.

Then he sneered when he heard keys jingle as his brother let himself in.

Sherlock paced and John began to growl at the new scent.

Mycroft was alone and Sherlock realized it had been half a year since he’d seen him. He couldn’t mock him for his size now, the elder Holmes having dropped considerable weight. Maybe the underclass of England weren’t the only ones struggling with ration cards.

“You aren’t taking him,” Sherlock said fiercely, shaking his head furiously as he paced, unable to keep still, unable to stop the impulse to guard John’s door.

Mycroft settled himself, ever the unruffled diplomat. “You look ghastly.”

Sherlock shook his head again, “You aren’t taking him, do you understand me?  He needs to be here. With me. I’m close, so bloody close! Do you understand? He needs me. Don’t you _understand_?” He was jittery, uncomfortable in his own skin, rambling—he knew he was rambling but he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t had a conversation in person in weeks, months? What day was this? He paced.

Mycroft gave a gentle sigh. “I need you to calm down.”

“Calm? Calm?!” Sherlock shouted, throwing a hand up in the air. “Oh yes, let’s just stay calm as the world falls into chaos. As people starve and hunt each other down for the shoes on their feet or the scarce food in their bags. While infected roam the outskirts and purge the countryside. While people we love get taken. Oh yes. Yes, keep calm and carry on, shall we?” 

Mycroft studied him with unreadable eyes. “I am willing to compromise with you on this matter. Willing to let you keep John here, with you, under certain conditions. If you refuse, the team outside will come in. Now, would you like to hear them?”

Sherlock slowed, but he couldn’t stop. He glared at Mycroft, “What _conditions_?”

“One—For God’s sake stop moving! Stand still and look at me!” Mycroft snapped and Sherlock froze, squaring his shoulders to his brother. “Thank you,” Mycroft readjusted his tie. “One- you take care of yourself. I mean it!” He barked, as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You aren’t eating, or sleeping and those need to be rectified. Two, John doesn’t leave that room. Ever. Three, you are dealing with bio-hazardous materials, you will need a proper lab set up. Your _kitchen_ ,” Mycroft said pointedly. “Does not a lab make. I’ll send proper equipment so you can work from here. Write a list. Anything you need. Do _you_ understand?”

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fists in a rhythmic pattern. Something he’d recently picked up from John. “You’re being very considerate,” He said quietly. “Why are you suddenly so accommodating?”

Mycroft didn’t shift an inch. “Because if anyone can figure this out, it’s you. I believed it a year ago. I believe it now. And I believe now that you have the proper … _incentive_ , you’ll do everything you can to find it. And dare I say your caring now is the only advantage we have.” Mycroft eyed him cautiously. “Might I see him?”

Sherlock stiffened. “No.”

“How is he contained?”

“He’s chained.” Sherlock put malice into his voice, hoping the tone would curtail any further pushing from his brother.

“You forged his test results.” It wasn’t a question. “Did he know?”

Sherlock stayed silent. Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock knew what was to come. _Sherlock, how could you be so utterly **reckless!**? How could you not have sent him away with the other potentials when you found out? He’s like this because of **you**. You could have put the whole city at risk, the whole country! What were you **thinking**?_

Instead Mycroft said, “I will have Mrs. Hudson relocated.”

Sherlock blinked. “She’s been with her sister these last few months.”

“Still,” Mycroft continued. “She might pop up and this would give her… a start, to say the least. You should have the building to yourself.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Alright.”

“Is there anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head. He looked through the door at John, his murky eyes glinting in the dark. They were every bit as perceptive but held none of the warmth.

_I miss you. John, I miss you so much._

“Brother,” Mycroft said quietly and the detective turned. “He wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Sherlock shattered. He advanced on his brother and stared him down with black eyes. “Get out. Now.”

Mycroft nodded and left.

* * *

 

Day by the day the intervals grew.

Where before John had allowed a brief ghosting of a hand on his knee, he now allowed Sherlock within his space, within his corner. It was gradual, painfully slow. He gripped the remote, made a show of it to alert John that he still had it, would still not hesitate to use it, and John had eventually settled into the routine.

Had settled into Sherlock’s scent and presence being around him.

Half an hour became common before John’s nostrils would flare and Sherlock knew an attack was coming. He didn’t shock John, he would just move away and the creature would relax minutely.

He would work in his lab—his new, government-funded lab—until late in the evening when a thought, idea, frustration would strike him and he would make his way to unit C.

He would pace and grumble and ask questions out loud and John merely watched him with hooded glances and always stay silent. John was there, his forever conductor of light, listening to him.

He kept his promise to Mycroft, and forced himself to eat. He was eating buttered toast and pacing the length of C, speaking to John when he realized John was following every move of his hand that held the food.

John recognized eating. Eating was something he knew and understood.

Sherlock walked up to John, and held out the toast.

“Want a bite?”

John opened his mouth before snapping it shut. He leaned and inhaled, before wrinkling his nose and drawing back in what seemed to be shock. He looked up at Sherlock with wide, red eyes and huffed a noise of confusion. As if he were completely baffled as to why Sherlock would eat _this_ instead of hunks of flesh.

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at the expression, so surprised and so very _John_. God, he hadn’t laughed in months.

John however did not appreciate his laughter, pulling back and slinking into his corner once more with an annoyed growl.

Sherlock finished his toast, licking the last bit of crumb and butter off his thumb.

It was a lighter moment between them but such moments remained few and far between as weeks stretched into months.

* * *

Fourth injection.

_#121. Readied antiserum._

_No discernable results._

* * *

Patience and consistency paid off.

Sherlock kept him fed, twice a day and always at the same time and eventually John learned that the food would be there. Food would _always_ be there. Sherlock had smiled when John hadn’t finished his entire meal, plenty of meat still on the bone. He took that as a good sign. He no longer ate like he’d never see food again.

He could sit with John, side by side, his back to the wall as they settled into comfortable silence. John didn’t growl, or touch him, or do anything but watch and fidget occasionally, his claws twitching and clenching his sides. Sherlock knew they probably still ached.

One day he reached, lightly touching John’s wrist and the creature didn’t move as he lifted it and ran his fingers over the twisted forms. Six inch claws, sharp and black, gradating up his forearms to a light gray that settled below his elbow. He turned the hand over in his own and John hissed, but it wasn’t an angry noise.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked and John slowly looked away, eyes unfocussed into the empty space.

* * *

He woke up three days later to John standing over his bed.

His heart stammered in his chest, knocking about and nearly causing to seize. He froze, staring up at the shadowed form. At the broken chain glinting off the generator lights in the street. The broken bits of silver that hung around John’s neck.

The remote was on the nightstand, three feet away.

He calculated swiftly, how quickly he could grab it before John could attack and the odds did not look good.

“Shhllkkk.” John mangled out, the noise rumbling in his chest.

Sherlock’s mind halted, pinpricks filling his skin. “W-what?”

“Shh…” John bared his teeth, his throat working hard. “Shhrrllk.” He growled simply.

Sherlock blindly reached, hand finding and clasping John’s forearm, his fingers tightening.

John blinked but remained still.

“Sherlock.” He breathed, nodding. “Sherlock. Again. John. Again. Please. _Sherlock_.”

“Shhrrllawk.”

Sherlock pulled John to him, burying his face into his belly, breathing in the bleach of his shirt. John was solid and still in his hold, a slight rumbling in his throat.

He’d never told John his name since he turned. Never once was it uttered in the flat. His mind raced. Not once did Mycroft say it. Not once was it uttered. Not in all this time.

John _remembered_.

Without warning John disengaged himself from Sherlock, pulling away quickly and moving into the back of Sherlock's bedroom, tucking himself in the corner and curling up, small growls and confused whines being emitted. 

Fourth injection.

_#121._

_Discernable results._


	3. Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter got split up. Sorry about that, but I wanted to post something for you. :3

Sherlock inspected the damage and winced at the splintered cedar door and the links of the chain scattered in the hallway. Attempting to bring back John into unit C was an entirely fruitless endeavor and one that would seem to cause more stress and aggression than was necessary.

John kept to Sherlock’s bedroom, never crossing the threshold into the hallway and living area. He kept a steady pace along the edge of the walls, a caged jungle cat guarding the border of its enclosure. It wasn’t until Sherlock entered and climbed into the sheets every night, that John would calm and settle himself on his haunches and visibly relax along the north wall.

He needed to work. To pull through his research and make lists, lists and more lists. Organization. John was the organized one, always keeping him mentally on track. He was Sherlock’s engineer scrambling to steady the runaway train of his mind. But now it all fell to him.

He needed to check the generators, order supplies, feed John, check the propane tank, order more supplies—so many items he had to do alone and the idea of sleep seemed impossible, his mind just refused to stop churning. But if it was the only way to make John relax without drugging him, it was a sacrifice he could make, if only for a few hours.

He read over his notes for #121. One hundred and twenty one attempts, only four of which he had trusted himself to apply to John.

But whatever progress John had made in his cognitive awareness seemed to have fled the scene. He still clutched the remote; the niggling fear that John was _loose_ , no longer chained, pulled him into sudden bouts of fright. But he spent portions of his day near John, kneeling and patiently practicing, attempting to recreate the result.

“Sherlock. Please John. _Sherlock_. Sher. Lock.” It was tedious and patronizing. He felt like a frustrated parent with a petulant two year old, but he was so close. He had had it—he’d bloody _had it_! But it was retreating, fleeting out of his grasp, but he refused to let it regress and fade like this.

John would glower at him, head bowed, flinching away from light sources and prolonged touches. His tolerance for Sherlock’s presence was still at the thirty minute mark before he’d clearly had enough and would shift impatiently, and Sherlock would recoil back, startled every time.

John no longer had white sclera in his eyes, that portion being drenched in blood red while his pupils were blown black, making reading him and sensing directional gaze nearly impossible. But he would turn pointedly away, body tense, the pearl white of his teeth flashing on occasion.

He was irritated, but not aggressive and Sherlock still had to believe that there was still progress there, and much more to be had. But rarely, so very rarely, John’s eyes would flash… not rage filled, or confused, or irritated. He looked worried. Distrustful. But the look was always over in a flicker.

Sherlock turned over the vile in his hand, the amber fluid swirling. #121. He was close, but a fifth attempt needed to be made. Stronger. He poured over his notes and sent off a text for Mycroft. A list. More supplies needed.

He entered his room and watched John cease prowling and look up at him. He collapsed onto the duvet, sprawled on his back, making a dim note in his mind that he should wash the sheets tomorrow, and check the security perimeter, clean out the—

The bed shifted with weight.

His eyes snapped open and he jackknifed, hand gripping the gray little box that had become more attached to him than his mobile and stared at John, who had settled himself upon Sherlock’s sheets.

He wasn’t sitting, per se. He still hunched, seated on his haunches and oddly crooked, head bent to the side and shoulders back. But his eyes were clear and alert, and even through the red and black of them Sherlock knew he was _thinking_.

John shifted and fidgeted. He raised a single blackened claw and tapped on his collar. Twice.

Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise on their own volition but stayed silent, frozen to the spot.

John snapped at him, not with anger but frustration. A clawed hand reached up to his neck and wrapped around the choker, tugging once.

The message was clear, but Sherlock stared, his heart knocking wildly in his chest.

_I can’t. I can’t John, I can’t take it off. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

“Shrlawk. Hrr.” And there it was again. That low rumbling noise that came more from John’s chest than his throat and Sherlock could feel his pulse thundering through his veins. Sherlock couldn’t even feel elated that John was speaking once more, because just as quickly John snarled “Hrrr!” again, his rolling R’s always stuttering into a wolfish growl.

His lips pulled back as Sherlock shook his head slightly, not comprehending.

‘Hrrr.’ Sherlock’s mind spun. It wasn’t the usual utterance, it was pointedly a word given the concentrated emphasis John had put into it.

“Hrrr?” Sherlock asked gently and John pulled on the collar again.

“Shrrlawk hrrz. Hrrrt. Hrrtz.”

_Hurts._

_Sherlock hurts._

It was worse than any physical blow; Sherlock was certain his chest cracked open, spilling something precious and bleeding out onto the linens.

“I-…” Whatever expression he had on his face had John cocking his head, his clawed hand lowering to the bedspread. “I’m sorry.” How pathetic. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his throat tightening.

“I can’t. I want to but I. Can’t. I can’t.” He shook his head. “Do something, John. Right now that can show me…that you’re in there. _Really_ in there. That you understand.”

But John’s expression was heartbreakingly vacant, staring straight through him and blinking with dark eyes. He suddenly turned and growled, slinking off the bed in a graceful movement and slumping back into his corner.

 

Slowly, Sherlock laid back down and began to shake.

* * *

 

It was gone.

_How could it be gone?_

He’d been so careful. He’d inventoried, calculated and measured. _He couldn’t be out._

Sherlock opened the cupboards, hands pushing through cans and plastic bags, trying and failing to not feel rising panic.

It was gone.

He pocketed the remote, needing two hands to hold his mobile as he dialed.

“I need vancomycin.” He snapped when he heard the first click of the phone. “It was on the list!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said patiently, sounding more weary every time he called. “There is no more. They did a thorough check. There just is no more.”

“Then give me its synthetic derivative!”

“Sherlock—“

_No._

“That’s it, Mycroft. The key. Everything else is—“ He waved his hand before gripping a fist in his hair. “Mycroft, I _need_ —“

“You’ve been at this for six months Sherlock! Surely you did not think our supplies were unlimited!?” Mycroft shouted and Sherlock stilled, his chest tightening. “You need to find another way.”

_There wasn’t…_

“I—“

“Find another way!”

_There isn’t. There isn’t one._

Sherlock’s mouth refused to work.

I _can't. I have nothing left._

Mycroft hung up the phone.

* * *

 

Sherlock had never felt more tired.

He stood out in the living room, staring blankly out onto Baker Street. Buildings with boarded up windows and roads littered with shattered glass. Refuse and paper scattered, winding around the pavement with each tide of the wind. It was silent, always silent. No motor vehicles due to the preciousness of petrol for the generators, and immune survivors keeping to themselves, quietly shuffling through each day.

He dropped his eyes.

John had stagnated.

He’d crouched just outside John’s immediate reach, looking over him with wet eyes.

“Please,” his voice mangled from disuse. “Say my name. Please. Talk to me. Anything.”

John wouldn’t even look at him. Even with his unnatural eyes, Sherlock missed them. Missed being the focus of John. Missed his smile and his voice. His touch. But if he took a pace closer John would snap at his legs like a mongrel dog, eyes flashing with stress.

What would John have done, if it were him? If he were the one infected? If he had been the one to turn like this?

_He would have shot you in the head, point blank._ Was always the response his mind supplied. _John would have shown mercy; he wouldn’t want you to live like this._

He tried to remember how he had felt at the beginning. When he first noticed John turning. The idea of ending John’s life hadn’t even entered his thoughts. Even when John had begged him. He’d bought the collar and leash, fully intending to keep John secured until he could fix this. He'd been so sure he could do this.

His words, “I will fix this.” He’d promised.

He’d gone so far yet fallen so short.

He had allowed himself to hope. That had been the mistake.

For all the progress John had made, he now was held in-between two states that was neither raging beast nor John. It was clear he was confused and distraught. He’d begun to eat erratically. One moment feasting and the next shoving it away and howling with distress, raking claws into the floorboards. Sherlock couldn’t soothe him, couldn’t hold him or speak to him in a way John seemed to understand.

A self-aware creature. If anything, all the progress had made John worse.

* * *

 

He slipped the needle in, the familiar sensation of tight rubber around his upper arm oddly relaxing. He’d kept this hidden from John, the John from before, one baggie securely tucked away but now it hardly mattered.

Once injected he placed everything neatly on the coffee table, and stretched out on the couch, his arm thrumming with ache as he crooked his elbow and rubbed, closing his eyes.

* * *

 

He was being bitten.

Something was eating him.

In a more lucid state, he could say he would have been terrified. Should have been scrambling for the remote. Should be shouting and fighting. But he felt nothing, hollow as a bird’s bone, as there was something sharp and rapid against his shoulder.

Then a horrendous snarl.

He couldn’t move, body strangely heavy as his eyes flew open, blurry with tears. He focused, straining on the body that hovered over him. A dark figure. John. There wasn’t any pain in his body, the drugs in his system thankfully numbing, but his brain hammered.

The horrific knowledge that this was how it would end, with John attacking and finally consuming him, left him shaken to his soul.

He was on his side on the floor, having shifted off from the couch at some point. The hardwood was cool against his hot skin, glossy with sweat. His head swam; he’d probably hit it during the fall.

Something soft and sour was in his mouth, distantly aware it would be remnants of vomit right as John’s red eyes flashed with fury. His hand struck out faster than it had any right to as he backhanded Sherlock across the face, wrenching it and forcing Sherlock onto his back.

Before Sherlock could even register the fact John had _slapped_ him, the creature collapsed on top of him and began to shake.

“Shrlock. Shrrlock.” He mumbled against his side.

Tentatively, Sherlock reached a hand up, settling it over the expanse of John’s warm back. “John…” He breathed.

John snapped up, sharp teeth bared. “Idiot!” Clear as a bell and he bit and pulled at the sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown twice, and suddenly Sherlock was sobered enough to realize that was what John had been doing. Biting and tugging at his clothes. To wake him up.

_Oh God._ He could have died. There in Baker Street, choking on vomit and too drugged to wake himself. John would be left alone. _Alone_. No one to protect him, no one to take care of him. What would have happened?

Would he have eventually starved? Would he have gotten desperate enough to break through the front door, only to be shot by soldiers on the street? Or captured and cut to pieces, limbs being prodded and –Sherlock gagged, his throat suddenly dry and stomach clenching with nauseous upset.

“John, I’m …I’m alright.” Now, he was. Almost. But before? He’d vomited. Was he on his back? Did John move him? Shift him? Had he been in the recovery position? He tried to remember to breath as John whined against him. “I’m alright. It’s alright now.” He struggled to sit up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 

John shook his head, his throat bobbing and jaw clenching. His eyes were slick with unshed tears. Sherlock wondered if he could indeed still cry, but found himself not wanting to find out. 

John whined again, an abnormally canine sound coming from someone who so clearly spoke moments earlier. His claws clenched and unclenched at his sides and he shifted to Sherlock, seemingly wanting to be closer but holding himself back.

It had been so long. So long since he’d held John.

He eyed the collar around John’s neck and it filled him with fiery hatred. His hands flew to it.

John recoiled but his arms stayed at his sides as Sherlock deftly unbuckled and unsnapped, viciously tearing away the shackle and throwing it across the room. John stared at it as Sherlock reached and pulled John to him, the man only stiffening in his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he tucked his face into the hollow of John’s neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He shook.

John didn’t move, only making an odd noise in his throat, so vague Sherlock couldn’t interpret it. But John against him, breathing and warm and still alive and allowing him this, allowing his hold—Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s dark eyes.

“I gave up.” He said simply and John blinked but remained expressionless. “I gave up on you. On us. But I’m not done.” He reached up, running a hand through John’s hair. “I’m not done.” He said fiercely. Feeling more bold than he had in months, Sherlock clasped John's face in his hands. "I love you, John."

John's mouth quirked, another slight, vague movement that Sherlock struggled to understand, but knew it had to be positive. An acknowledgement. 

"I need something." Sherlock continued, loosening his hold on John's face but still keeping contact, as long as John would allow. "I need... we need to get something. But it's outside the zone." He took a breath. "Could be dangerous."

John blinked. And grinned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are always appreciated ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> belladonnaq.tumblr.com


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